


dawn breaks our necks & we lie in morninglight

by Vivian



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:30:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>—You should have killed me when I asked it of you. It would have been merciful.<br/>—Yes it would have, Fingon says. Maedhros smiles. It is, of course a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dawn breaks our necks & we lie in morninglight

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely aranrhodinhimring (tumblr). Thank you so much!

—How was it to have him as a father? Fingon asks him once.  
—Like a volcano erupting while passing the Helcaraxë.  
Fingon smiles bitterly. Maedhros does not offer an apology. He is his father's son after all.

 

Fëanor with smouldering eyes, light not like that of the two trees, but like steel in a furnace. He was not fair, for fair is a tender word. But he was beautiful, their father. Like a storm or a song at the dawn of time. His will was a maelstrom, his temper lava spat from the pits of the earth, ripping through everything. With his will he commanded them. With his hands he forged their destiny.

And even though Maedhros spoke and thought of Fingon when they set fire to the ships at Losgar, he stepped aside but he did not tarry. For he was his father's son first, before he was Maedhros.

He and his brothers follow Fëanor's will even after his death, or maybe more so. Because now his image burns behind the lids of their eyes. At night, at day, and burn he did until no flesh was left to bury.

Maedhros thinks of him always. Sometimes his thoughts take the shape of Káno's voice and verses, sometimes his thoughts are like birds, sometimes like the breath of a summer-fever. But he is ever present, the fire spirit, his smile sharp like the edges of diamonds, his hand like the hand of Ilúvatar himself—and he would think of it placed upon his head gently. And he would think of the same hand making the little gesture, the command to throw the torches at the ships. He would think of Ambarto slumbering inside one of them. Ambarussa being the only one who had known (or so they thought). How Ambarussa's eyes had widened and his fingers loosened, when Fëanor told him he had not roused Ambarto. He can never forget.  
Maybe he should have known then what he still but murmurs before sleep: Megalomania.

They had renewed the oath nevertheless, all of them, even Ambarussa. (He still remembers his cries. Raw and loud and suddenly cut off.) They had sworn and there is no repentance now. (Only determination upon their brows. And something final in the curl of Ambarussa's eyelashes when he closes his eyes, Ambarto's name on his lips.)

 

So when Fingon asks him, how it was to have him as a father—it hurts.  
Pallid candlelight behind a silver-spun veil illuminates Fingon's even features. His cheekbones are high, lips sharply cut, his armour's bow like the cradle of Ithil and his jaw strongly set. His beauty is like a Noldorin-steel blade peeling off his skin. He does not speak of it. Instead he says:

—You should have killed me when I asked it of you. It would have been merciful.

—Yes it would have, Fingon says. Maedhros smiles.

It is, of course a lie. They lie to each other all the time.

They say: I need you here. I do not want you here. You are still beautiful.

 

In Mithrim they heal the wounds he's suffered chained to Thangorodrim. It should be a period of peace. It is not.

Anger arouses in him with the passing of every hour he lays on his sickbed.

Fingon brings flowers to his bedside. They are copper-red and smell sweet and spicy at the same time.

—What is this? he asks.

—Flowers, Fingon says and sits down. His black hair slips over his forehead in shiny tresses; he does not brush it back.

—Do you want to mock me?

—No.

There is silence between them. In a way it has been ever since Maedhros was saved. Maybe it will not change. He dreams of Fingon that night. Dreams of how he appeared before him, and yes, he is his fever dream, his madness, his salvation.

When he wakes, cool lips press down on his temple, a quick breath and a fluttering heart.

—Valiant, he says. Findekáno, he whispers.

—I am so sorry, Fingon says.

Maedhros closes his eyes and feels the tears burning hot behind his eyelids. He gulps in a breath.

—You speak nonsense, Maedhros says.

—Maitimo, and his name sounds so broken coming from Fingon's lips. He reaches up with his right hand. It takes him a moment too long to realise his mistake. Then he threads his left hand in Fingon's long hair, pulls him closer still. Words hang on the curve of his lips, but he cannot speak them.

—Kiss me, kiss me, Fingon utters, barely audible.

And when he does, Fingon's lips are soft and yielding, nothing like the warrior he is, and it reminds Maedhros of Aman, reminds him of better days and the smell of cornflowers. It hits him like a wave, rolling over him and sucking the air out of his lunges. Their kiss is sloppy and wet, desperation bitter on the tip of their tongues. When they touch his scars, feel his broken skin, Fingon's fingers tremble underneath his own.

—You are still beautiful.

 

 

When war comes again it feels like a revelation. They call it the Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame, for Morgoth unleashes Glaurung, the golden, a beast as tall as a fortress, driven by the everlasting hatred and wrath of his master, though he possesses an astute viciousness of his own. And with him come the Balrogs, creatures of fire and thick oily smoke. And whilst Celegorm and Curufin retreat to Nargothrond, he fights with what feels like white-hot burning fury. His laughter echoes amidst the battlefield, a grim smile baring his teeth and the hunger for destruction leading his left hand. No fear is in his heart for death is his weapon, not his foe. Until his muscles cramp, dirt and gore on his face and hands and armour, until exhaustion strikes him down, leaving him delirious in his tent—just to rise again before morrow comes, blood-lust pumping in his veins. Later his deeds are praised, but it matters not, he does not care for their vaunting voices.

 

The news of Fingolfin's death comes with the wind of Thorondor's wings. The one he has given the burden of kingship to is no more, fallen in the battle against Morgoth himself.

 

The night is starless and cold. He is sitting in Fingon's private chambers, sipping wine. They do not speak a word and have not since he arrived that afternoon, a week after Fingolfin's death. The air is thick and lies heavily upon them. Fingon blows out the only candle.

A low thud and Fingon is on his knees before him. Maedhros feels his fingers on his thighs. Then both of them are on the floor and Fingon holds him down. He cannot see his eyes, just the blurry silhouette of his naked shoulders. And when Fingon flips him onto his stomach and takes him with neither preparation nor oil to ease his way he bites his lip and bears it. Fingon grabs his hair and pushes his head down. With his cheek on the cold marble and Fingon's rough thrusts, he thinks of Fingolfin and Fëanor. Neither of them find comfort that night.

 

 

Some days he does not remember. Blissful seconds before waking. Then he hears the laughter of Turko and Kurvo, while he feels the comfortable weight of Káno nestled against his chest. He'd hold him close and Káno would hum melodies into his ears, fragments of songs as company for his dreams. Every now and then there'd be Fëanor's scolding voice and fear would wake in him, but also love, sharp and red-hot.

This day is not one of those. He wakes screaming.

(—What is it Maitimo? Are you alright?)

 

 

In the blink of an eye, war is upon them again. This time it is different.

Smoke, thick and sour hangs in the air. The earth is torn and sown with bodies still warm. Blood seeps into the soil. The battlefield is drowned in silence when his gaze finds him. What is left of him. In the midst of battle his swords slips from his fingers. Like a blind man he stands there, suddenly unaware of the fighting. Then he is running. His throat feels sore, he's screaming (he hears none of it). His knees hit the ground and he cannot breathe and he crouches down.

Fingers trembling, trying to grip, strands of blood-wet hair (golden clasps deformed). The smoke fills his lungs, toxic, numbing, but cannot erase the stink of burnt flesh.

Maedhros feels how the fabric on his knees soaks with blood. Underneath his fingertips broken bones, beaten into the ground. Fingon's face is averted. He does not dare to look. He grabs Fingon and it takes his last strength, so violently he has been thrashed into the earth. He buries his face into his neck; an outstanding collar bone scratches his cheek. His cry is but an unheard whisper.

 

2

 

In Aman they used to go through the cornflower fields. It was like setting foot into the sky.

Fingon laughs and tosses his hair back, he has opened the clasps and braids and now it runs free around his shoulders. Without a second thought Maedhros grabs the black, wavy tresses and pulls him close. They tumble together and fall into the sky.

They lie upon the ground and tremble in wonder. He feels like when he first gazed at one of the jewels his father has crafted. In a swift motion he turns around and places his hands on either side of Fingon's head, his copper hair curtaining them. Fingon's smile is vigorous and sharply cut.

—What would you have me do? Maedhros murmurs, heat laced into his voice.

 

It is two weeks later, after one of Káno's cherished concerts, that Fingon takes his arm and shoves him into an unused room of the Great Hall. Mischief glimmers in the corner of his eyes.

—Your brother truly is astonishing, his voice is impeccable.

—Did you take me here to talk about my brother?

Maedhros grins, showing a little teeth and adrenaline rushes trough his veins.

—What do you think? Fingon cocks a curved eyebrow.

—I think you should shut your mouth already, Maedhros says, and flips them around; now Fingon is the one pushed against the wall. There is a moment of hesitation, of heavy breathing and locking gazes. Then Fingon grabs the collar of his robe and crushes their mouths together. Their first kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth. It's like a dam breaking. Fumbling hands and impatient sighs.

—Not here.

—Alright.

 

They are lucky not to be noticed when they climb up the walls and slip into Maedhros' room through the window. If they had used the front door, they would've faced his brothers and maybe even his father. Nothing they have time to deal with, not now. They laugh like children who stole candy without anyone noticing. Maedhros bites his lip and looks at him as if it was the first time. Fingon with his tussled hair and a healthy blush on his cheeks. Then Fingon smiles and he looks strikingly like Fingolfin: a generous predator.

—Undress, Maedhros hisses.

 

They lie, heavily breathing, their skin is still hot, a sheen of sweat glimmers in the candlelight. Exhaustion softly pushes him down into the sheets. He pulls Fingon closer and kisses his cheek like he has done so many times before. They both have conquered and yielded, now their limbs are entangled and Maedhros listens to his heartbeat.

—I can't wait to see your brothers' faces.

Maedhros chuckles.

—Let's pray my father won't be there when morrow comes.

They look at each other and he can't hold back the grin that spreads on his lips. Fingon laughs and kisses him.

 

3

 

He's still young when Káno is born and he is in wonder. Nerdanel is glad when he helps her, first carefully then with more confidence and understanding. Káno grows so quickly, it seems to him like no time at all has passed. But then he's lying in bed and Káno is nestled against his chest. He puts an arm around him and thinks, if anyone ever hurt him, he would slay the one responsible where he stood. Carefully he brushes Káno's hair back and pulls the blanket a bit higher. His breathing changes and immediately his brother starts humming a tune. Though he is still young, his voice is strong and carries the melodies wide across a room or a hall.

When Káno is older, sometimes he still slips into his room and curls up next to him. He'd be gone before dawn and nobody knew, except the twins, because they used to sleep in his bed as well. There were nights when they laid in bed, all four of them, and Maedhros would suddenly realise that they all breathed in the same rhythm and caught himself adjusting to this rhythm as well.

They all grow up in the blink of an eye. It is strange, he thinks, how full their house is now, of life and of shouting and laughing. But when Turko is out hunting, Kurvo is working on a new piece of jewellery and Moryo is out with his father, he starts to notice how tired his mother looks. How her skin is a shade paler, how her voice sounds strained. Without knowing why, he realises how the occasional fights between her and his father pick up a certain harshness, a certain loss of respect. His father's temper becomes more heated until it is burning. It's these days that Turko looks upon other families with a glint of ugly arrogance, his lips pursed up ever so slightly. Not unlike their father, Moryo's anger is easy to arouse and Kurvo does not seem to care as long as he has work to do. Ambarussa are wilder, untamed except when their father's thundering voice crashes down on them with fury. And yet, there is happiness as well and he thinks, with time all good things will come forth and outshine whatever darkness crept into their home.

 

4

 

They are the only ones left. But Káno does not come to his bed that night, he sleeps alone, and Maedhros can hear his weeping through the paper-thin walls. The urge to protect and comfort him vibrated through every fibre of his being once, but now he does not find the strength.

When Káno pleads with him to let go, he does not. And Káno obeys him, because Maedhros is his older brother and because they swore an unbreakable oath. They decide to mask themselves and slip secretly into Doriath the following night.

 

5

 

—Why did you follow me? he asks Fingon once.

Fingon looks up at him slowly. Their gazes lock and he says:

—What else was there to do?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story in this fandom and I hope I didn't fuck up totally. Comments and constructive criticism is always welcome!  
> I hope you enjoyed this.  
> Say 'Hi' to me on [tumblr](http://lieutenant-mairon.tumblr.com) if you like.  
> 


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